Defining Booth
by dawnsfire
Summary: “The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it.” The history of one Seeley Booth.
1. Surprise

_set between Hero in the Hold & Beaver in the Otter; if you've been following the spoilers, you'll know some of this will likely be AU pretty soon…if it isn't already! I do follow some spoilers, so I have adjusted names and a couple minor details to fit, but nothing else to worry about. Of course, I do not own any of these characters._

_Just wanted to get it started before the real fun begins!_

* * *

Chapter 1--Surprise!

*

Booth rubbed at his eyes tiredly as he stumbled to the front door. Whoever was outside (not his partner, by the pounding) was impatient and not shy about letting the whole building know. But it wasn't even 7:30 in the damn morning, on a _Saturday_, for God's sake.

Checking his peephole in his new and more careful fashion (his cheeks burned at how easily he had been fooled into letting in his own abductor! And he still couldn't pull a clear face to mind. He didn't know which one bothered him more), he groaned. There was no denying those features, those eyes…or the rage. _Why me, Lord? _he asked, casting eyes upwards as he opened his door.

"Dad," he said. "What in _Hell _are you doing here?"

* * *

"_The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it." ~Wendell Berry_


	2. Long Time, No See

The basic concept here is that most chapters will have both present and past scenes. The present is a continuous story, while the past (sections in italics) will be in no particular order. 'Cause as much as Brennan's past interests me, Booth's is rapidly pulling me in. Really looking forward to this week's episode, even if it makes this totally and completely AU (which it will).

I also need to point out that blc looked over the earliest drafts of this story and offered her thoughts. _Gracias, amiga_, if you're reading this.

**_

* * *

_**

"Seeley," Thomas Booth said brusquely, pushing past his wary son. "Nice place you got here," he said sarcastically.

"I downgraded from my last place, if it matters," Booth answered. "I wanted to be able to put more money into Parker's college fund. With the economy in the toilet, cutting back on my own expenses seemed the best way to go." He relocked the door out of habit and leaned back against it. "What are you doing here, Dad?" he asked again, very quietly. He was suddenly fully awake and unhappy about it.

Last night had been one of his bad nights--he had had the kind of nightmare that tangled itself with real life until it was impossible to tell what had happened and what hadn't.

When he had jerked awake, in a blind panic, literally unseeing, he had groped for the phone. _Call Bones. Gotta call Bones_. He needed to hear her, needed to talk to her. So he had called, letting her voice wash over him, assuring him (if not in so many words) she was alive and well. And that _he _was still breathing, too. He wanted to kiss her some nights--letting him call her and talk about it at the expense of her own rest went well above and beyond the usual call of friendship. She was probably the only person who could understand, though. But the call meant he had gotten _maybe _four hours of sleep after an over-long workday at the end of a grueling week and he had really hoped to sleep until about noon.

"I heard about Jared."

"It took this long for you to come?"

"Neither one of you snots could be bothered to actually tell me--or your mother--that he was in trouble."

"You're talking to Mom again?" Booth asked, folding his arms across his chest and trying to keep his voice level. "What was it you said when she left? You pulled chocks, that was it."

Tom shrugged. "Patty and I have talked once or twice."

Booth let that wash over him. _I don't think they've talked to each other since Jared was 18, and before that, it was only for the barest updates on us. Maybe_. "I told Pops because he and Aunt Ruth are the only other people in the family who actually care," he said harshly. It was too early in the morning to be tactful. "Jared and I left it up to him to decide how to pass the word on. And to who. We've had other things on our minds."

The older man grunted disbelievingly. Booth rolled his eyes. "Where are you staying, Dad? I can tell you some decent places. At least one of them is near the base."

"What's wrong with here?"

"Not happening, Dad. I have Parker over tonight, and there is no way I'm having the both of you under my roof."

"Parker. My illegitimate grandson." His face took on a self-pitying expression. "Not that I've ever seen him--or that I'm ever likely to get a _real _one, the rate you two are going."

"And that's why you don't get to see him, Dad. You can't see past the fact that Rebecca and I weren't married to consider that we still managed to bring a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful child into the world." He ran a hand through his hair. _Breakfast. I should consider breakfast. Ugh. Still too damn early._

A vague memory of telling Bones something about his father a few years ago drifted through his mind. _I haven't seen my dad in a long time, and if I had the opportunity to talk…_ "Did you eat anything yet? There's a couple good places around here if you haven't." _Assuming I can keep it down_, he added silently, a knot forming in his stomach. Upon second thought, he was pretty sure he hadn't meant talking over a convivial meal when he had told her that.

"Yeah, sure." Tom looked about the room curiously. "And then you can take me to see Jared."

Booth snorted. "Not likely. Jared knows I'm not coming today or tomorrow because of Parker. Feel free to go on your own, though--if they'll let you in. C'mon, Dad, you know how these things work. Here." He handed his father the remote. "I think I left it on one of the ESPN channels; I won't be long."

He raced through his morning routine, unhappy with the prospect of his father wandering about his apartment. Once dressed, he plastered a smile on his face that he hoped didn't look too fake before heading back into the living room--and a morning with his father. _God help me_.

*****  
*****

_Seeley stared out the car window, watching for the signs that would tell him they were almost at Gramma and Pops's. There--there was the chocolate colored house. Only three streets left. And there was the funnily-painted hydrant..._

_His train of thought was derailed as Jared tossed his stuffed dog at him, whining. "Seeeeeleeeeey…"_

"_Stop it, Jar!" He picked up the dog, ready to throw it back, but caught a glimpse of the murderous expression in his father's reflection. Swallowing hard, he carefully set the toy next to his baby brother's car seat._

"_Don't throw things at your brother, sweetheart," their mother said softly. "Especially in the car. That's dangerous. What if it hit your daddy?"_

"_Why, we might get into an accident," their father said, a step away from growling, and jerked the wheel back and forth, making the car swerve erratically. Jared giggled, but Seeley grabbed at the door handle and shared a wide-eyed look with his mother._

_Even at his tender age, Seeley was fairly sure his father didn't like family dinners. He didn't know why and no one had actually ever said he didn't. It was…just a feeling, somewhere under his heart._

_But _he _liked dinners at Gramma and Pops' house. Sometimes Aunt Ruth was there, and her best friend Frannie. They were so cooool; Frannie had box seats to the Phillies and they had promised to take him on his half-birthday. Although he wasn't sure why Dad made faces into his glass when they were there. And Gramma's food was the best! But the best thing of all was that his dad hardly ever yelled at them while they were there, and his belt stayed on, too._

_He hoped that wasn't the reason his father wanted to stay home._

_The car bumped into the driveway, and he waited for the emergency brake to be set and his parents to open their doors before moving. Jared fidgeted, but even he knew better than to unhook himself too soon._

_But they were both unbuckled by the time his dad opened the door and bounced out of their seats as soon as they could get down._

"_Seeley! Jared!" a happy cry came from the open door._

"_Aunt Ruth!" the boys chorused, pelting ahead to hug her._

"_Ruth. Where's your--friend?"_

"_Tom. Frannie couldn't make it today."_

_Seeley looked up at them, confused at the tone in their voices. A gentle nudge from behind encouraged him to head into the kitchen, however, and he soon--well, not forgot, but pushed his curiosity aside in favor of a pre-dinner slice of Gramma's apple pie. Guaranteed not to spoil his appetite._

* * *

_Pull chocks_--(US Air Force slang) to leave a bar, for example to abandon a crappy party.

The quote about Booth seeing his father is from _Killer in the Concrete _and I used his comment about family dinners from _Glowing Bones in the Old Stone House_ as the basis of the flashback_._


	3. Father and Sons Reunion

_A semi-long A/N here. First, sorry for the delay; Jared's hard to write. I haven't seen him enough to have a real tight grasp on his character, so if he seems off, I hope you will forgive me. But both Booth boys seem to have a way with words, don't they?_

_Second, some of "here & now" scene is drawn from the civilian aspects of imprisonment we've seen on the show, since they didn't show Jared waiting for his trial. I will say the military really does seem to be quicker than civilian courts._

_Third, my interpretation and timeline for the flashback is inspired by King Rob; it made so much sense, I up and stole it._

_Fourth, I will be incorporating a few things from Foot in the Foreclosure here and there as this continues, but still pretty much keeping to my original plan. I doubt they're all that drastic, anyway. I thought it was a lovely episode._

* * *

Monday morning, Booth called in to work, taking a personal day. God knew he didn't use many of them. Sick days, yes, but not personal days. No wonder people thought he was a workaholic. And then he left a message on Bones' phone that he wouldn't be in--family issue and he would explain it all to her later.

He wondered what Jared would make of it.

"Odd time for a visit, Seel--" Jared said, coming in the small room at the prison and stopping dead. The door almost caught him as it shut and he jumped. "Dad?" he squeaked.

"Jared." Tom stood, and critically raked his eyes over his younger son, before shaking his head. "Where did I go wrong?"

Booth rolled his eyes at that. _I don't know_, he thought sourly. _Maybe it was the belt, driving Mom out of the house, the beatings, drinking yourself into oblivion every night--and __don't__ think I didn't notice how dark your sunglasses are or how badly your hands shook when I picked you up this morning. Nothing's changed, even if you don't have anyone to slap around anymore. I do wish I knew how you recover from your hangovers so fast though._

Jared flinched out of habit, but then straightened back up.

"Gee, Dad," he drawled, taking a seat across from Booth. "I didn't know you cared. Or is it just that you're worried that word'll get out that your son is a drunken idiot who willfully screwed up his own military career? Just like his old man?"

"You know nothing of my time in service," Tom snapped, the scowl that used to petrify his sons firmly in place. Unfortunately for him, it no longer had as much effect as it once had.

"You forget--I worked in the Pentagon. I had access to all sorts of interesting information--a fact your Squints knew," Jared added, looking at Booth, then back at Tom. "I know how many missions Seeley was on as a sniper, and I know how narrowly _you _managed to keep from getting a big chicken dinner on your way out."

Booth's eyebrows shot toward the ceiling; that was something that had never occurred to him. And that Jared had all those details…

"Jar?" he began uneasily.

"Don't worry, bro, my clearance wasn't quite high enough to get all the details. I know what you did, roughly, but that's all."

"Good."

"Dear God, how did I ever get such wusses for sons?" Tom demanded, slamming a hand on the table. "Boo effin' hoo, I had to shoot people! Grow a pair, boy! People die, and when Uncle Sam says jump, you do! And you--" he turned to Jared "--no real man would avoid combat the way you do, riding a desk all damn day! A coward and a wimp!"

Booth's fists clenched. "When was the last time _you _shot someone, Dad," he said harshly. "Actually saw their face as they died? You have no clue what it was like! You just dropped bombs on people you couldn't see like it was some damn video game. You say Jared avoided combat? Well, I say you know nothing of _real _combat!" He rose, hitting the table even harder than Tom had. "You had a cushy base to fly out of, never attacked by the VC, for God's sake, so you were able to sleep all through the night without worrying about a guerilla attack taking out your sentries, or waking up to a knife at your throat or a gun at your head." He leaned forward menacingly. "When you know what that's like, then you can criticize! But not before!"

He dropped back into the chair and looked at Jared. "Have you heard anything yet?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm.

"Yeah, the initial hearing's next week; the JAG said something about contacting you and Tempe for testimony."

"They'll have to run it past the AUSA's office, since your case is connected to the civilian one we have to testify in, as well. They might even want you, I suppose."

"Wouldn't surprise me. No date settled for that one yet, right?" Jared asked. "I'm sure someone will let me know what I have to do."

"No doubt. You doing all right otherwise?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "Nothing much to it, really, except for getting really, really bored. Never thought I would miss work, but here I am. How's Parker? You had him this weekend, right?"

"Just fine. Despite hanging with the Squints all the time, he's turning into quite the athlete. His soccer coach says he's an great goalie for his age." Both of them ignored their father's snort of disgust. "Doing pretty good in school, too."

"Why can't you have him play a real sport, like baseball or football instead of that pansy-ass Euro trash?" Tom demanded before Jared could answer. Booth ignored the question.

The rest of the morning continued along the same uncomfortable pattern, bits of information sandwiched between assorted slurs and potshots.

Tom was out the door already when Jared grabbed Booth's arm for a minute. "Do me a favor, Seel--don't bring him again."

Booth grimaced. "He's still our father," he muttered.

"Yeah, but not by choice. You always did take on too much responsibility, always had to be the hero. You need to stop taking on all the world's problems, bro."

*****  
*****

"_The scholarship was pulled," Seeley told his grandfather dispiritedly. "Not that it was a complete surprise. When I blew out my shoulder, I really did it. Nothing by halves," he added, trying to grin and failing miserably._

"_Can it be mended?"_

"_Well enough to use it, but not enough to play on the team for more than a year--if ever."_

_The older man grunted at that, looking at the sling that still supported Seeley's arm. "The rest of your financial aid--?"_

"_Covers the rest of the semester; the scholarship picked up most of it, remember? The rest just covered what that didn't. And with the scholarship gone…"_

_Hank lightly cuffed him. "Watch your tone, boy. You are covered for the rest of this semester, right?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_I think you should finish out the semester, then consider diverting from room and board and become a commuter."_

_Seeley grimaced._

"_Don't give me that look, Seeley. Your education is more important than your athletic career or that damn fraternity; a degree will open doors to you that a simple diploma won't."_

_That night, Seeley shifted about in his bed at home, thinking. His arm pained him enough still that he couldn't sleep, so he might as well think. He wasn't sure he could still manage all four years of college. Not right now, anyway. Yeah, there were other scholarships and grants and loans, but he was fairly sure he couldn't get them mid-year, and the deadline for next year had passed for most of them, anyway. It wasn't fair to his grandparents, to expect them to cover either the tuition or to support him, not with Jared still in high school. His parents--oh, no, that wasn't going to happen!_

_What did that leave?_

_He could find a job, go back to school later--evening classes. Construction was still hiring; the company he had worked for during the summer would probably take him back…as soon as his shoulder healed._

"_Damn it," he muttered into the dark. Everything came back to his shoulder. Not that he was all that enthused about that job anyway: the pay was good, but the work could be brutal. And he didn't want to be the hard-hatted grunt all his life, anyway._

_Office work? He shuddered at the thought. Trapped inside all day, staring at papers and computer screens, in some teeny tiny cubical? No way! Besides, some of those jobs still required some sort of degree._

_He ran through some other options for work--retail, fast food, cop… None of them really suited him. But he did have a few months left to think about it. And what was it that Gramma always said? "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."_

_Of course, she fretted despite saying that, and he had inherited that from her. His mind kept worrying at the problem and suddenly presented him with a reminder from a few days before his shoulder had crapped out on him._

_The Army recruiter on campus._

_He really hadn't paid much attention at the time, but some of what the man said to his friends who were interested had stuck. And hadn't he handed out cards to all of them, regardless of their level of interest? Yeah._

_Flipping on the light, Seeley hauled himself to his feet and dug through his bag, looking for it, trying to remember what exactly the guy had said. Something about covering his education; well, that was true enough. He also knew from his dad and Pops that medical care and housing would be covered. And even though neither man had been career, he was aware that had its own good points, if he were to opt for it. And if not--it would only be for a few years; he thought the recruiter had said the initial tour was six years. If it didn't work out, he'd be done by the time he was 25, come out with his degree, and--what?_

_That one stumped him, and he suddenly realized he hadn't thought beyond college. A yawn caught him by surprise then and he decided to wait and talk it over with Pops in the morning. He'd still have to wait for his shoulder to mend, but once he was back in shape, it meant serious work, meaningful work, not shuffling papers or trying to sell shoes to spoiled women in the middle of the day. And that sounded like a fair alternative if college was not an option anymore._

_It turned out that Hank was not all that thrilled with his decision. _

"_Seeley! There's a war on," he protested._

"_There was a war on when you enlisted," Seeley reminded him. "Service to your country is honorable, you told me. A real man doesn't back down just because he might get hurt."_

_Hank sank back into the chair at that. "You have a point, Shrimp," he admitted quietly. "And there is such a thing as a righteous war. I'm just not sure this is, and I would hate to see you caught up in something-- Look, war has a way of damaging people, you know that."_

_Seeley nodded. "Dad."_

"_And me, and don't think that those who love us are unaffected. Even war for the right reasons can do that." He was quiet, remembering his own experiences, and Seeley watched him anxiously._

_He was of age, legally he could do almost anything he wanted to, but he valued his grandfather's opinion, too. He wasn't sure he could go ahead and enlist without Pops' blessing, and definitely not in the face of outright opposition._

"_Are you sure you want to do this? Think hard, Seeley. I won't stop you if this is truly what you want. I will ask two things, though. First, I want to you to look into this carefully. Learn as much as you can and make an informed decision."_

"_No problem, Pops. I want to confirm what he said anyway. What's the other thing?"_

"_Wait until the end of the semester before you decide for certain. And then, if you still want to, I'll take you to the recruiter's office myself."_

"_Deal."_

* * *

Did I do all right on this one? *crosses fingers*

_Big Chicken Dinner_--Bad Conduct Discharge, the less severe of the two types of punitive discharge that may be awarded by court martial (the more severe being a dishonorable discharge). Booth does say no one in the family's ever been dishonorably discharged before Jared in Beaver in the Otter.

_VC_--Viet Cong

And a Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers!


	4. Meeting Bones

_So relieved that the last chapter went down well! Thanks, all. Those were some very high words of praise in there. Let's see if I can keep it up!_

* * *

Still tense after leaving Jared, Booth took his father to the diner. The Founding Fathers might have been a better place, but he had a feeling that wouldn't be a good idea, all things considered, no matter how badly he himself might want a drink. But he was going to drop Tom off at his motel just as soon as lunch was done and barricade himself in his apartment. He had gotten a lot to think about today and the solitude was even more necessary than that drink.

And just to complicate his day, sitting at the counter when they got inside, was his partner. She looked up and smiled at him.

"Dad, why don't you grab a table over there," Booth said, pointing towards a part of the restaurant he rarely sat in before she could actually say anything. "I'll join you in a minute." He slid onto the stool next to her as Tom walked away. "Someone should record this moment for posterity--Dr. Temperance Brennan is actually out of her lab, eating lunch all on her own, at a reasonable hour, without her partner making her," he teased, some of his tension fading.

"Irritating man that he is. I thought you were taking the day off?" she asked.

"Yeah."

Her eyes slid over his shoulder and her smile faded slowly. "Your father, right?"

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Numerous genetic similarities, Booth. You do resemble him quite strongly, even though I'm sure you wish you didn't. Plus, you are carrying extra tension in your shoulders and are frowning in a way I've only seen you do when it was Jared you were worried about. And your message did say it was a family issue."

"I don't know why you think you need lessons from Sweets in reading people, Bones. You do just fine with me."

"But I know _you_. That makes the difference."

He offered her a lopsided grin. "I'm not asking you to come sit with us. In fact, I'd rather you didn't."

"Any reason why?" She looked slightly hurt, but not closed off enough to reject his reasoning.

"Yeah--my dad…he's… Let's just say I doubt the two of you will get along and the diner's not the place to find that out for sure."

"Oh. I see. Archaic and patriarchal notions about women, science--"

"You got it."

She bit her lip gently, thinking and plainly curious. "All right. I do have to get back to the lab soon. Would it be all right if I just passed by on my way out?"

"That'd be fine, Bones."

He left her and went to sit across the table from his father. "Hey, Val," he greeted the waitress. "My regular, please."

She jotted it down and disappeared.

"And who was that, Seeley?"

"Who, the waitress?"

"Don't play dumb with me, boy. The chick at the counter."

"My partner. She's on lunch. And I wouldn't call her a chick to her face." He allowed a feral grin to stretch across his face, mood definitely improving. "She just might _make _you take it back. The fact that you're just about her father's age won't matter in the slightest."

Tom made a dismissive noise; Booth smirked. "I should let you try, but considering she's taken down perps on her own, including beating hell out of a gang leader, it would be dangerous to your health. And I have no idea what kind of insurance you still have."

Brennan chose that moment to leave; she paused at their table, as she had promised. "Booth, I forgot to mention that there's still a little follow-up work for our last case. Tomorrow's soon enough; I just wanted to let you know."

"Thanks, Bones. By the way, this is my father, Thomas Booth. Dad, my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan."

She nodded at him politely as he put down his glass, eyes running over her in a way that made Booth a little uncomfortable; not _exactly _lewd, but somehow inappropriate. Her expression managed to stay impassive, except for the faint narrowing of her eyes; he knew she had seen it, too.

"A pleasure, Temperance," Tom said, rising and reaching for her hand as though to kiss it. She deftly turned it in his grasp and gave him one quick shake before letting go.

"I'd prefer Dr. Brennan," she said crisply. He smiled at her, making it plain that Booth's charm was an inherited trait--as if Parker wasn't proof enough.

"I didn't know you needed a doctorate to work for the FBI."

"You don't," she replied evenly. "But you do at the Jeffersonian. I'm the best in my field and you need considerably more than a Bachelor's for that." She cast a quick look at Booth. "Which is why I was paired up with your son--the best with the best, after all. I'll see you tomorrow, Booth."

"First thing, Bones," he promised, a small smile playing on his mouth. Back when they first met, he never would have thought she'd ever compliment him.

*****  
*****

_He stood outside Cullen's office, wondering why he had been called up to see him. He hadn't done anything wrong, his last case had wrapped up nicely, paperwork in on time… Cullen's secretary smiled sympathetically at him._

"_You're not in trouble, Agent Booth," she assured him._

_He smiled at her. "Just feels a bit like being called to the principal's office, you know?" He adjusted his tie. "Who's in there now, getting his ass handed to him?" he asked, hearing a voice getting louder._

"_Agent Dimitri, and he's doing the yelling."_

_The door banged open and Dimitri charged out. "I don't care, Cullen--I'm not working with that damned robotic bitch anymore!"_

"_All right, all right! I already said you didn't have to. Go, get out; file for vacation--I'll make sure it's approved." There was a long sigh. "Jean, is Booth out there?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Get in here, Booth--and shut the door after you. No interruptions, Jean, please."_

"_Sir, yes sir." Old habits were hard to break._

"_Sit." As he did, Cullen leaned back in his chair and regarded the younger agent. "As you might know, Booth, we have an arrangement with the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab to assist in matters our own forensic labs and MEs cannot--for whatever reason."_

"_I've heard about it, yes," he answered cautiously._

"_They do brilliant work, but they're squints--and you know what that means."_

"_Difficult?"_

"_In a word, yes. And if they didn't do such good work, I wouldn't continue the association. As you undoubtedly just heard, I need a new liaison. Want to give it a try?"_

"_Me? Work with squints?" He wanted to laugh. Science was never his thing, and now Cullen wanted him to work with a bunch of scientists?_

"_The job is basically bringing them the bodies for examination and analysis or once in a while having them confirm on-site. More than that probably isn't a good idea. Squints after all tend to deal with the theoretical, not the real world."_

"_I understand, sir."_

"_It means a possibility of working more cold cases, of course. Dry skeletons usually aren't from last week's murder. So if you're out for glory, Booth, say no now and save us all the trouble."_

"_No, sir--not looking for glory." He had never told Cullen about his balance sheet and wasn't about to now. Cold cases could heat up and a killer was still a killer, it didn't matter when the crime was committed. It would still count. They surely wouldn't all be cold cases, either--he knew how badly bodies could be mutilated by their killers. It would be something different, too. And he had to admit it sounded kinda intriguing. A more complex version of what he did now, things complicated by time as well as false leads and lies._

_He thought about what Dimitri had shouted and felt the old competitive urge rise. To outdo his fellow agents, to do the job no one else could. "I'll try it, sir."_

"_Good. I'm getting to the point that I don't want to put anyone in there. God only knows how squints can be such trouble. My advice? Treat 'em like an extension of our own forensic people…just a little more experience, a little more knowledge, and top-notch equipment to back them up. You're respectful enough of our people, so just apply the same to them."_

"_Good advice, sir." He thought for a moment. "You have to tell them I'm the new liaison, right? I should go over while there aren't any active cases. Check out the lay of the land."_

"_Good thinking. I'll let Dr. Goodman know--he's the head man over there--and once he knows, you can head over and make your introductions. I'll let you know."_

_It was a clear dismissal, and Booth left._

_The next day, he pulled up in front of the museum and was redirected around to the structure. He didn't like it. Not convenient at all. Some of those cases would be urgent and he might not have the time to find his way through this maze every time. He signed in at Security and waited for his escort. There were enough guards, he noted, studying the area. Regular patrols. Were these squints and what they did really so valuable?_

_He didn't wait long; Goodman was flatteringly prompt, though quite impressive in his own right. He had a manner about him, a firm and commanding aura that reminded Booth of both his grandfather in some way as well as a priest he had particularly trusted while growing up._

"_Welcome to the Jeffersonian, Agent Booth." Whatever he thought of Dimitri leaving was hidden behind that impassive dark face, and he showed no signs of resenting the time he had to spend showing yet another agent around. _Or maybe he hasn't had to do this before_, Booth thought. "If you'd care to come to my office, we can discuss matters."_

_It was a short interview, thankfully. And yes, he was under no doubts that it was an interview, as much for him as about him. He leaned back, projecting an air of ease, but he was playing with his poker chip the entire time he sat there._

_They went down into the lab, Goodman explaining the security measures as they walked. "The platform is secured access, mostly to prevent contamination of the remains we work on. There are other, more closed in, labs, but the platform is the best-equipped as well as the most open. Which, of course, helps prevent claims of evidence tampering. Naturally, there are other areas that handle matters not connected to bodies."_

_Booth nodded, taking in the explanation along with the sight of the halls. Futuristic glass and metal, but there were signs of an older building--a surprising wooden staircase, for example, tucked in one corner. Above the main lab was a narrow catwalk that widened at one point to support some sort of lounge._

"_The main entrance from the outside is on the other side of the lab," Goodman said, indicating a set of double glass doors. "I would recommend using that for the most part." He detached his ID and swiped it through a reader. No one on the platform seemed to pay attention, deeply absorbed in their own tasks._

_Goodman led him to a woman bent over one of the tables, and Booth discreetly admired her curves under the loose blue lab coat._

"_Ahem, a moment if you please, Dr. Brennan. This is Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI. He's replacing Agent Dimitri," Goodman said. "Agent Booth, Dr. Temperance Brennan, our forensic anthropologist."_

_She straightened up and gave him a sharp look. He had to admit that while he didn't normally go for auburn hair and aquamarine eyes, she had definite potential and he turned over his chances while they spoke. But then she started to talk and he understood what the others had meant. _This _was Dimitri's "robotic bitch." He wondered if it was too late to back out…_

_

* * *

_

Flashback in the spirit as "Introduction" and "Mirror" from my Vignettes series. I noticed people expected fireworks when Brennan and Tom met. Hope you're not too disappointed--but just you wait…all he has to do is open his mouth at the wrong time.

Hey! I do need a little help: any ideas on how Booth & Cam met? I was thinking about including that among the flashbacks. Fifteen years ago--well, 16, now, since she said it last year in Con Man. Remember, she knows Jared, too, so feel free to include him.


	5. Philadelphia

_The flashback contains child abuse. Not a surprise that there would be at least one instance of it in this story, I'm sure, but here it is. Did I really need to warn anyone? _

_Kisses to my reviewers; y'all are fantastic!_

_

* * *

_

"What does Jared think about this?" Brennan asked curiously the next morning as he looked over the file in her office. Even when it was just a cover, she didn't lie. There _was _paperwork waiting.

"The stuff with Dad, you mean?" Booth grimaced. "He's about as happy as I am about it. I think--I hope--he's gained some insight and realizes he came too close to turning into the old bastard. Minus the family, of course. Now he's trying to change, and having Dad here sniping at both of us isn't helping."

She frowned.

"He told me he wants to stop drinking, and I have to admit being in prison and mostly away from temptation will help," Booth explained. "But still, it's not easy--it never is."

She looked at him with sober eyes and nodded slowly, acknowledging that he would know.

"And he has to do all of this on his own. Until last year, I was always behind him--or in front of him, as the case may be." He stared down at the page, not seeing it, thinking about all the times he had saved his little brother.

"Does the prison have a chapter of AA?" she asked.

"Not sure; he hasn't mentioned it and I haven't asked. But I know he's talking to people--the chaplain, for one."

"I would never have thought he was the religious type."

Booth shrugged. "You take guidance where you get it, Bones. And we were raised to at least _think _about turning to the Church when we needed help." Worried that she was about to start one of _those _arguments, he looked up at her. But she had a serious expression on her face, not the one that indicated she was about to argue or even ask more questions.

"No, Booth, I wasn't going to say anything this time," she said, feeling his eyes on her. "Whatever helps you--and Jared--no matter what I think of it. We can save the arguments for another day," she added in a lighter voice. "When you have less in your head."

He chuckled and slid the paper across the table at her. "Thanks. And it's mind, by the way. Less _on _my _mind_. For the sake of my self-esteem, I'm going to pretend you really didn't know that expression."

Her mouth twitched. "Has your father gone back to Philadelphia yet?" she asked, scanning the form before signing it herself.

"No." He scowled, good mood disappearing. "But the sooner he's gone the better. Though, you know…"

She waited for him to finish, then nudged his foot with her own. "I know a lot of things, Booth, what did you specifically want me to know?"

"I was just thinking, when it was just the three of us in that room, Jared and I automatically joined forces. I can't think of the last time that happened. I've bailed him out so many times and when I'm not, we've always been…competitive."

"Not an uncommon occurrence between siblings," she noted quietly. "Anthropologically--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Bones, I know. It was nice, though--strange, but nice." He scrawled his name at the bottom of another form before speaking again. "But I wonder. Will it last? Or as soon as Dad's gone, will Jared and I be at each other's throats again?"

"I don't know, Booth." She sat back and regarded him. "Though I suppose if you made an effort to stop, what did you call it? sniping? at him, things should be different. I don't understand your use of that word, however, considering your past."

"Forget about it, just a figure of speech. As for the rest, it would help if he's on the same page as I am. And old habits are hard to break." He sighed. "And how many bad habits should someone be asked to shed at once?"

"That sounds like a question for Sweets, not me." She tucked the last form inside its folder. "He's the one who says he has insight into human nature. If your dad hasn't gone back to Philadelphia," she continued in one of her characteristically abrupt changes of subject, "where is he?"

"Beats the hell out of me. He isn't here, he wasn't at the Hoover, or breaking down my door at oh-dark-hundred this morning, and that's all I care about. What do you want to do for lunch?" he asked, hoping she would drop the entire topic altogether. He knew she was curious, of course, and so far, she had been fairly restrained in her questioning. Hopefully, she would stay that way until he was ready to talk about it.

Even if, he admitted to himself, that was likely to be a very long wait.

She gave him a long look, similar to the ones he had seen her grace her students with when they were not performing up to her normal standards, before answering. "I don't feel like the diner--Founding Fathers or order in and eat upstairs?"

*****  
*****

_Seeley crept along the hedge, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of the enemy, hands tight on the gun he held. Absolute top of the line, holding more than enough water to drench Jared, especially with the strategically placed bucket of water for a refill hidden under the porch. Plus, there were the water balloon grenades in a bag at his waist. He and the Cosmic Liquidator were ready for _anything_._

_He paused for a moment under the tree, listening. Nothing. He raced around to the other side and pressed his back against the lumpy bark. There--Jared always was noisy. He jumped out and squirted his little brother. "Gotcha!" he sang out happily. "Two-zip!"_

"_No fair," Jared whined._

"_You know what Dad says, Jar. Nothing fair in war," Seeley replied, smirking._

"_And Pops says a poor winner's as bad as a sore loser," Jared retorted, fumbling in his bag and yanking out his last water balloon, launching it at him. Seeley stuck his tongue out as he dodged, then turned to watch it land…and saw to his horror that it had already found a target-- Their father, who apparently had been napping unseen on the back porch. Jared blanched and Seeley gulped. This was not good._

_Tom stalked down the steps to the lawn, wiping water off his face. "Which of you little bastards threw that?" he demanded in a dangerously quiet voice. Seeley backed away until he was level with Jared, knowing from experience that particular voice promised even worse than when he was loud. "I work six days a week, trying to support a wife and two kids, and I don't ask for much, God knows: a hot dinner, a cold beer, and just one day of quiet, but nooooo," he drew it out. "What's it take for a man to get a little peace in his own house? Or is that really too much to ask for?"_

_He was right in front of them now, and both boys were quivering._

"_Tom? It was just water, an accident," their mother said, catching at his arm, having followed him down the steps. "Boys having fun."_

"_Stay out of it, Patty," he snarled, pushing her aside so that she stumbled and fell._

"_Mom!" Seeley cried, taking a half-step in her direction. Unseen by her husband, she waved him back, a warning look on her face. He gulped again, but stood his ground._

"_Who threw it?" Tom demanded again. Jared was shaking next to him and Seeley stepped forward again. "I did, Dad," he whispered. _

"_It was just an accident," Jared chimed in. "We were just playin' soldiers--!"_

_Seeley backed up slightly and stepped on his brother's toe. Both of them didn't need to get into trouble._

_Tom grabbed him, fingers digging into the boy's thin arm, and hauled him towards the garage. "You're staying in here until I let you out," he growled, throwing Seeley through the open side door and against the protruding wall studs._

_Something sharp ripped his belly and he cracked his head against one of the tools hanging there at the same time. He couldn't keep back the cry of pain as he fell on the floor, breaking the balloons in the bag still tied to his waist. He did manage to roll over just in time to see the door slam shut. Even if it didn't hurt to move, he knew better than to check if it was locked. It would be. But, oh God, it hurt! Worse than breaking his arm even. And he couldn't help the tears._

_The garage was hot with the summer sun and minimum ventilation and he lay back, hand pressed on the long gash. Oh, he was bleeding, he could feel it under his hand. But it was so hot and he couldn't think--they had taught some first aid in Scouts, but he couldn't think…Tired, too…_

_He wasn't aware of the door opening later in the afternoon, too far gone to even register the wisp of cooler air, nor did he hear his mother's horrified gasp when she saw him, or even the trip to the emergency room. He did remember waking up to her worried face on one side of the bed and the reassuring one on a man in a doctor's coat on the other._

"_How'd you cut yourself on that nail, young man?" the doctor asked kindly after checking his eyes and listening to his heart and lungs._

"_Guess I tripped," Seeley said, the lie falling from his mouth with practiced ease. The man gave him a funny look before turning back to his mom and talking about stitches and tetanus shots. He grimaced, though whether at the lie or at the prospect of shots he couldn't say._

_

* * *

_

The injury is the source of the scar he shows Sean Cook in Boy in a Bush. And yes, there really was a water gun by that name, similar to the later Super Soaker. Please, I don't have that kind of imagination.


	6. Five Percent

"_You know, my dad wasn't so great, but I came out OK…[Max] loves both of you, and that right there is 90% of what a son needs to hear from his father…Well, maybe about 95." Booth, Knight on the Grid_

_Yep, this is late. Sorry. Felt like being in one of those mazes where the walls keep changing on you--couldn't get a grip on it. But our noble King Robert helped me find the path again…and for his pains, I "borrowed" some dialogue from him. With permission, of course!_

_Hope you will pardon a little of the language; it wouldn't be something I'd say or even write, but it seems like things Tom would say._

* * *

The next few days were quiet, blissfully so as far as Booth was concerned. No cases, no father, just lunches with Bones and his own unending stack of paperwork. The Bureau wanted to saddle him with some baby agents and he was trying to decide if he could take over that responsibility without sacrificing any of his other, more preferred, ones.

He had asked Brennan to come by and speak with the newbies on Friday, detail some of the forensic aspects. If anyone looked _too _squeamish, he figured he could have them transferred to some other department until they either grew a spine or developed a stronger stomach, and thus make less work for him.

By the end of her lecture, he thought maybe a quarter of them were too grossed out. _Not bad. Less than I expected_. "All right, guys," he announced, clapping his hands. "We're done for the day. Thank you, Dr. Brennan." He grinned at her wickedly. "Are you up for dinner, Bones?" he asked, loud enough to be heard by the others. "I'm starving!"

She caught his mischief and gave him back her version of a cocky grin. "I could eat."

Both of them managed to stifle outright laughter until the last of the slightly green-faced agents left the room. "That was very bad of you, Booth."

"Then you shouldn't have played along," he replied, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. "I did have an ulterior motive, though--I'd rather weed out those who can't handle it right away before it becomes an issue."

She considered that as he turned off the lights and they headed back to his office. "Very good point," she finally admitted. "After all, vomiting over the remains would definitely contaminate them, and we usually don't have the time to deal with that."

"Exactly!" He checked his email quickly, then signed out for the night. "We're done, and I wasn't kidding about it beingtime to eat. And I know for a fact that you are not needed back in the lab, and you brought your stuff, so let's go, Bones!"

"I suppose you're going to insist," she said dryly. "All right, but I get to choose tonight."

"Oh, God--you're going to make me eat vegetarians, aren't you?"

"There will be no meat, human or otherwise," she replied in that same dry tone.

"Ew, Bones!"

"You started it--'eat vegetarians' were your exact words."

He stared at her, torn between amusement and shock. Amusement was winning, though, since she rarely made a decent joke. A little macabre, but considering her line of work… "Ha ha, Bones, very funny."

She smirked at him. "I try."

"Yeah, you are a bit trying at times."

She swatted at him as they gathered their belongings and headed out. Routine took over and they soon found themselves outside the Founding Fathers, debating once more the organic food issue.

"Give me a break, Bones! Organic's good and all when you're a millionaire author, but the ordinary people, with standard incomes? They can't afford to spend four bucks for a lousy tomato! Especially now." He half-shrugged. "It might be better for your heath and the environment--and _don't _bring up the alligator argument again--but when you're scraping by, you need cheap. Otherwise you don't eat!"

She thought about that for a few moments before conceding. "You have a point, Booth. Even in school I noticed that juice and even lemonade cost more than soda, which made no sense, since they are marginally better for you. And I am familiar with the concept of attempting to extend a food budget, even though you might not believe it. However, that does not mean that I'm going to change my buying habits when it comes to any meals I serve you."

"Fine, fine. But then you're just going to have to suffer through regular, non-organic, food when eating at my house. I figure catering to your vegetarianism is more than enough."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "And I appreciate it, I really do," she started to say when a hoarse shout interrupted them.

"Seeley!"

Both of them stopped, and Booth stiffened before turning.

"Dad. I thought you'd gone back to Philly," he said flatly.

"You'd like that, I suppose." His eyes raked over Brennan speculatively, openly ogling her. "You said this's your partner, right? Not too bad-looking. 'Least you got _something _from me. Looks like she's wild in the sack."

"Partners, Dad--that's all."

Tom squinted at him. "Just partners with _that_? Are you stupid, boy? Or--" he got a horrified look on his face, "Oh, God, you're a fag, aren't you? Just like Ruth! _Jesus_, what did I do to deserve that?"

Booth's hands tightened into fists; he hadn't wanted to punch someone this badly in a long time. But Brennan stepped closer to Tom, examining him with all the care she devoted to her skeletons.

"I don't understand how your son's sexual orientation reflects on you," she said, frowning. "It is simply a matter of genetics. Luck of the draw, I believe is what some people call it. And I wasn't aware that most mainstream religions still considered a homosexual child--assuming he is, which I doubt--a punishment for the sins of the parents. It's irrational in any case for the child to be afflicted or altered in any way because of something the parents may or may not have done."

Both men gaped at her for a moment, and Booth finally laughed, having sorted through her convoluted statement. "Thanks, Bones. I think." He gave her a quick smile and she returned it.

"You're welcome." She turned toward the door and Booth followed her. Seeing this, Tom laughed nastily.

"You're whipped, boy!"

"Whipped?" Brennan asked curiously.

"He thinks that I'll do everything you tell me to."

"Well, that's obviously not true, or you would have given me a gun years ago--or let me drive, for that matter."

He smirked uneasily; those were among the few things he _could _deny her. Though it killed him to admit it, maybe his father was right. About this, anyway. "Better by you than him," he muttered, hoping neither heard him.

Faint hope. Brennan gave him a funny look and his father growled.

"What was that, boy?" His words held the menacing bite Booth remembered and the little boy inside wanted to cringe. The adult managed to hold fast, however. "If ya' got something to say, say it like a man…or did you forget how to talk like a man, too?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Booth ground out.

"You know exactly what I mean, Seeley." Tom's hand shot out, grabbing Booth's shoulder. "You act like a pussy, sound like one too. Shouldn't surprise me--you never were much of a man to begin with. Too much of your mother in you."

Before Booth could even think up an answer that wouldn't lower him to his father's level, Brennan had pushed in between the two men, hands on her hips and a defiant glint in her eye. "You're wrong. Booth's not a pussy.

"I know you are related," she continued slowly. On the surface, she seemed calm, but her back was stiff and Booth recognized signs of a Brennan wrestling with her temper. "Physically, you share too many characteristics to think otherwise. But I don't understand how someone like you could produce a son like Booth. He genuinely cares for people beyond their outward appearances and tries to fix things to help them. He gives, and gives from the heart, and I've never seen anyone so generous. He is also an excellent father, and I am beginning to believe that it must be instinctual, for you _obviously _never provided a good example. And that's just part of what makes him as good a man as he is! How tough he can talk or how many beers he can drink or even how many women he's screwed is hardly the true measure of a man!

"And if you were a real man yourself, even a fraction as good a man as your son is, you'd understand that!" she finished, eyes flashing angrily. The older man's fist clenched as he stared down at her.

"Bones!"

"What? It's the truth!" she protested, turning to face him.

_She really thinks that_, he realized with wonder.

"Stay out of it, bitch," Tom snarled, pushing her out of the way. "This is between him and me."

She stumbled and nearly fell, but recovered swiftly and lashed out with a solid kick that knocked him against the wall. Booth snorted amusement. "I told you she was dangerous, Dad."

The smirk faded, however, as Tom struck back. Brennan eluded him with ease, but Booth didn't like it. It reminded him all too much of watching his parents when he was a boy, even though his mother rarely dodged that well and almost never tried to hit back.

So he did what he used to do and stepped between them. Of course, he was fully-grown and strongly built now, and was able to dish out some of his own punishment if he wanted. And he did, he realized. He wouldn't mind seeing his father bloody on the ground and didn't really care who did it. His mouth tightened as he realized how _badly _he wanted it.

He finally rejected it after a brief but intense debate with his conscience and simply pinned the older man to the wall by his shoulders. "First? Leave. Her. Alone. Second--it's between us, huh? Well, talk then. And make it fast. I don't have the patience or even interest in hearing whatever filth comes out of your mouth." He was aware of Brennan standing behind him; he made a note to ask later why she restrained herself in the would-be fight. It wasn't really like her.

Tom glared at him. "I'm still your father. Where's your respect?"

"You lost that when you left us. Five minutes, Dad, and then I'm walking, whether you're finished or not." Since Tom wasn't moving, Booth let go of him, unconsciously rubbing his palms on his pants and watching him carefully.

"You were nothin' but trouble, Seeley--from the day you were born," Tom said after a couple minutes.

Booth said nothing, waiting. But his breathing was harsh and his hands had curled back into fists. Brennan laid a hand lightly on his arm from where she stood just behind him.

"That's enough," he said finally, somewhat soothed by her touch. "Dad--do us all a favor and go back to Philadelphia. Don't come back. Let's go, Bones."

"No, boy--you're going to stay and listen to me!"

"Don't think so, Dad. Your five minutes are up, I'm an adult, you're an SOB making a fool of yourself in public--" he leaned a little closer and pointedly sniffed, "--and you're well on your way to drunk. Better calm down before someone arrests you for disturbing the peace." He put his hand at the small of Bones' back--something she was letting him do more and more these days--and they started to walk away. "Don't make me be the one. Let's go, Bones," he repeated. "Suddenly I'm not hungry."

"You're a waste of space, Seeley!" Tom called after them. "You've _never _been anything but a failure to me!"

*****  
*****

"_The Desert Inn," Hank read. "Seen better places."_

"_Been in worse," Booth replied shortly._

"_Hey, it's an adventure, right? C'mon, live it up, dudes!" Joe exclaimed, clapping each on the shoulder "Too bad Paul got married. He's missing out."_

"_On what?" Booth scoffed; thoughts of Paul and Joanne led him to think of Camille. Maybe he should have gone to New York, after all. All he had done here was get drunk and blow his cash on stupid games. If he'd gone there, he'd at least have had some decent company. The fact that she was female would have just been a huge bonus. Not that they were exclusive, more like friends with benefits when they were near each other. "Too many weird drinks with equally weird names and getting to watch you lose all your cash and seeing how many ways the local _señoritas _can turn you down?"_

"_And how much you got left, Seel?" Frankie wanted to know, cheerfully draping an arm about his shoulders as they walked into the casino every hotel and motel in Nevada seemed to have.._

_Booth sighed at that--he only had about $35 and a little change. He was going to have to hit the ATM just to be able to pay for a room; that or sleep in the car. He'd rather have the room, but he'd slept in worse places than the backseat of a car. All of them had. Good thing the return tickets were already paid for._

_He shrugged Frankie's arm off and looked about the small casino, aware that the other two were already at their preferred games. He didn't know what he wanted to do. Roulette was boring, blackjack confusing, slots too random to be fun, but there was a craps game in the corner. He nodded in satisfaction. That he could play, had learned on his very first deployment._

_He headed in that direction, Frankie close behind._

_He knew he had laid down too much of that $35 as an opening bet--but you only lived once, right? When would he be back? Plus, he wanted to pretend, just for one night, that he was a normal guy who had never looked through a scope and taken a life._

_He forgot all right--he won, again and again, and the rush of it drowned out everything else. _

_And the dice kept turning up in his favor, provoking him into increasingly rasher bets. But he managed to stop once his buddies were standing around him. One last win and he was off to cash in his chips._

"_Damn, Seel, how much didya win?"_

_Ten grand, his mind repeated dazedly. _Ten. Effin'. Grand_. The feel of the bills sliding past his thumb was more intoxicating than all the comped booze sent to him. He'd never seen, much less handled that much money before._

"_Drinks all around," he called to the bartender. "I'm a lucky, lucky man tonight!"_

_The guys had lost at their games, but he didn't begrudge them the drinks. Tonight, he was lucky--tomorrow, one of them would be. Surely. He tried to think about he would do with the cash, but couldn't think past the smile of the woman at the end of the bar._

_Next morning, he woke about $700 poorer and with the mother of all hangovers._

_His conscience niggled at him while he was in the shower, but the guilt couldn't get past the call of the dice, the remembered adrenalin rush of winning._

_Sixteen hundred hours found him back in the casino with the remaining cash in his pocket and hands eager to roll the bones again._

_Oh two hundred hours, and he was broke, with just $50 left in his bank account. Some last glimmer of sense or maybe it was just that the credit union wouldn't let him completely empty his account through the ATM._

_But Joe had won big at the cards, and had floated the drinks and rooms for everyone._

_And the day after that, they were on a plane, heading back, leave over. _I'm going to New York next time_, Booth thought, leaning his aching head against the airplane window. _Vegas just isn't my kind of town.

* * *

The gambling details (the Desert Inn, $10,000, tapping out the ATM) are straight out of Woman in the Sand. And his hand at her back thing--? Sorry, I don't think it happens as often as is thought, hence the qualifier.


	7. Fun and a Drink

_Bonus points to anyone who knows where the title of this chapter came from._

_In rereading this, I realize I might have been influenced by blc's work to some degree. Well, there are worse writers, and since she's read this at least once (I think), I guess she's OK with it._

_And thanks to mendenbar and Nyre for their suggestions. It's not quite what either of you suggested, but it got my mind moving. (I really wanted to work Jared in, but he refused to cooperate, contrary SOB that he is, so I had to run with this. Maybe I can write that another time.)_

* * *

"Did I do something wrong?" Brennan asked softly in the car a short time later. He hadn't said a word since they left his father ranting on the sidewalk.

"Surprised me, mostly. You really think that? That I'm a good man?" He couldn't help the slightly disbelieving tone that crept into his voice. Oh, she had said it before, but…

"I don't say things I don't mean, Booth. And if your father can't see that, then he's blind as well as…" She let it trail off, and he supposed she was uncertain of what she should say, how far to push it. After all, it was his _father_, and they hadn't been on the same page when it was her father; he and Sweets had expected her to react more to Max's arrest for that reason. He knew she would remember that, even if she didn't entirely understand it.

He just nodded, though. _If we weren't driving, I'd have to hug her--guy hugs be damned_. "Your place or mine?" he asked, blinking a bit--eyelash, no doubt.

"Whichever you're more comfortable with. We can order Thai or pizza and you can watch one of your ridiculous war-mongering spectacles."

"Pretend everything's normal, huh?"

"Sometimes that's all that gets you through the day," she replied evenly.

"That's true," he agreed. "But I think I need something different. Off our ordinary."

"How far off?" she asked after a minute. He glanced at her; she had that considering expression on her face.

"I don't know. I want--to be alone, but at the same time I don't." He sighed. "I don't suppose that makes sense."

"You'd be surprised. You can be more alone among a crowd of strangers, sometimes, than you can be in your own place." She hesitated. "I know a place--an Irish pub. There should be a local band performing tonight--they do a mixture of traditional and modern folk, plus some older popular songs. How does that sound? We're not likely to run into anybody you know there," she added. "It's not to Angela's taste, and I don't think Hodgins, Cam, or the interns know about it. I've never seen them there."

"A social scene Angela's not into?"

"Too quiet for her." Brennan smiled. "How does that sound?"

He considered it for a minute. "Actually, it sounds…nice. Let's try it."

"You can park in my lot; there's not a lot of street parking in front of the pub, and it's quite close."

The pub _was _surprisingly close to her place, hidden away on a little side street. The door was open, the lights were welcoming, and the sound of a lot of cheerful people gathered together spilled out. He looked at the name spelled out above the door. "How do you say that?" he demanded.

She chuckled. "What, no Gaelic, Booth?"

"You speak Gaelic, too, Bones?"

"Just a little. Enough to order a drink, anyway, and say thank you. The owner's teaching me more, though. It's not an easy language to master."

"If you saying it's not easy, then I know it's harder than Chinese algebra."

She stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head and led the way inside and straight for the bar.

"Temperance! Come for a wee drop?" the bartender called.

She smiled at him. "Donal, how are you?"

"Well enough, well enough," he answered in a lilting brogue. "You came on a good day--Rirá's performin', with a céili to get started."

"I hoped that would be the case."

"And who's your friend, lass?"

"A very good one, as well as my partner at work. I've brought him to be corrupted into the ways of good drinks and better music."

"The true Irish, in other words?"

"That's your claim, not mine. Donal, this is Seeley Booth. Booth, Donal. He owns Ó Cianáin." To Booth it sounded a little like she said _O'Keenan_, but the vowels were off a little.

"Pleasure." The men shook hands.

"A wee drop of the Guinness, Temperance, to start?"

"As always."

"Irish mud," Booth snorted, unable to help himself. Both sets of eyes turned to face him. "Er…that's what my grandfather always used to say, anyway."

"An English Sassenach? Temperance…"

"Now, now, Donal," she chided, sliding onto one of the stools. "His family's been in this country for several generations, which hardly makes him an Englishman. Try not to let your prejudices get ahead of you." She took the glass he poured and sipped appreciatively. "I still want to know your source," she said, licking her upper lip. "For some reason, the Guinness I've bought elsewhere isn't as good as what you serve." She sipped again, then tipped her head at Booth. "Give him a half-pint, Donal. You're going to try it, Booth, but there's no point in wasting it if you don't like it," she added, looking at him.

The man obligingly passed him a much smaller glass than Brennan had and he drank about half, making sure he gave it a fair try. He knew better than to argue with her when _that _tone slipped into her voice. Finally he shook his head and pushed it away. "Not to my taste, but thanks."

"At least you tried," Brennan said. She slid the glass towards her and drained it. As he goggled at her, her eyes twinkled. "Waste not, want not," she said in a fair approximation of Donal's accent before leaning across the bar to talk to him and Booth turned his attention to the rest of the pub, wondering at her change.

It was dim, though not dark, and looked like every Irish pub he'd ever seen on a screen, complete with a fireplace and whitewashed walls. A couple women wearing small and wildly patterned aprons passed among the tables with trays of glasses, both empty and full, and the occasional basket of appetizers. His stomach rumbled, now that they were away from his father.

On the far side of the room there was a low stage, more of a dais, with a pair of musicians performing on it. Most of the patrons seemed to be in a good, if slightly boisterous, mood, some keeping time on their tables, others simply talking to the others at the table. Booth strained to hear the music, but could only catch snippets of the song through the conversations around him.

_In a mean abode on the Skankill Road  
Lived a man named William Bloat;_

_So he took the sheet from the wife's cold feet  
And twisted it into a rope  
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,_

_Sure, he went to Hell but his wife got well  
And she's still alive and sinning.  
For the razor blade, it was English made  
But that rope was Irish linen!_

He choked at the last line as the other listeners roared appreciation. When Brennan looked at him, he gestured helplessly at the singers in explanation.

"Which one was it?" she asked and he was sure he saw amusement glimmering in her eyes. "William Bloat or The Horseman?" Not waiting for an answer, she indicated the beer at his elbow and slid off the stool to find another seat. He grabbed the glass with a nod of thanks at Donal and followed.

They found a small table near the back of the room, still handy to the bar, but far enough back not to be completely overwhelmed by the noise level. She angled her chair so she could see the stage, and incidentally putting her next to him.

"This is quiet?" Booth asked, sipping at the American beer in the glass.

"For Angela, yes," she said, amused.

"Humph. I didn't know you were into the Irish stuff, Bones."

"Brennan is an Irish name," she replied, eyes on the singers. "So is Keenan, for that matter. Brennan means 'little drop.'"

"That's why he keeps saying a 'wee drop'?" Booth grinned at her, actually starting to relax.

"Yes. Keenan means something like 'ancient,' I think."

"Weren't you the one who complained about 'cherry-picking elements of a complex culture' a couple years ago? Isn't this the same thing?"

"No. It's more like the use of certain derogatory terms. They may be used within the culture or exploited by that culture, but are absolutely forbidden to outsiders. Donal, as I'm sure you've noticed, is Irish-born and actually did make this pretty close to a real Irish pub. It's his choice to do so. If you, on the other hand, decided to do something like this, that would be cherry-picking."

"That almost makes sense," he decided. "I might just get drunk tonight," he added, changing the subject. _Just enough to numb things._

"Well, you saw how close we are to my place. My guest room is always available to you."

He didn't actually get drunk--beer rarely gave him more than a heavy buzz, especially when bolstered by the food they eventually ordered. Several shots of whiskey, bourbon, or some other hard liquor was what it took, and he wasn't ordering those. Though the thought of Irish whiskey was tempting…

No, the buzz simply made it easier not to think about the things that hurt. He didn't need more than that right now and knew it.

They left only when the pub closed, Donal cheerfully waving them off, and walked back to her place. He was sober enough to walk a (mostly) straight line, but she kept a hand on him as though to steady him. He wasn't going to complain, since it felt so _good._

They stopped just long enough for him to grab his kit from the SUV. Their comfortable silence continued up to her apartment.

"I'll just be a minute," she told him, locking the door. "Make yourself comfortable."

He could hear her futzing about in the guest room. Normally, he wouldn't let her fuss that much and would sleep on her couch, but tonight was different. A bed sounded good. And one in her apartment sounded even better; it might even smell like her, too. _OK, just buzzed enough that I'm not being careful, he realized, and vowed to keep his mouth shut. One emotional crisis at a time, Seel._

She moved out of the guest room and into the bathroom; or at least he thought she did judging by the sound of her footsteps. He was content to simply sit on the couch and think of nothing until everything was ready.

"Booth," she said, and her hand came to rest on his shoulder. He jerked; why hadn't he heard her?

"Sorry," she murmured and he leaned his head back to look at her.

"Just didn't hear you, Bones. And I guess I zoned out a little."

"Oh. I took my shoes off," she said, gesturing towards the bedrooms. "I should have realized--"

"Nothing," he told her. He kept looking at her; upside down was a new and interesting perspective. "It's all right, I mean." He decided that was sympathy on her face--or was that empathy? It wasn't pity at least; he couldn't handle that right now.

"I am sorry," she repeated. "But the guest room is ready whenever you are, and I set out towels in the bathroom. Otherwise, you know where everything is." She squeezed his shoulder gently, apparently at a loss for more words.

"Thanks, Bones." He pushed himself up and waited while she checked the locks, then followed her into the back of her apartment. "I mean it. Thanks. For everything."

"Partners," she replied, standing in her bedroom door. "And friends. You've done the same for me."

He nodded. "'Night, Bones."

"Good night, Booth."

*****  
*****

_"Oh, c'mon, Seel. Jo says she's very nice. Smart, pretty--"_

_"Reverse that and I might be interested," Booth grumbled. "I don't really want to be set up with someone."_

_"Lighten up, man; it's only one evening you've lost if you two don't hit it off."_

_"You owe me, Paul--no matter how it turns out." He stuck his hands in his pockets, fingering his lucky coin briefly. "All right, let's do this."_

_Two women were waiting for them at the bar inside the apparently popular restaurant. Jo he knew and he acknowledged her with a friendly nod before turning his attention to her companion._

_She was as pretty as advertised, he had to admit, with big dark eyes and sleek black hair worn shoulder length and curled under at the bottom, and wearing a whiplash-inducing dress in scarlet that set off her dark skin. And despite his earlier comments to Paul, he hoped there was a brain under all that sizzle or he was going to be bored out of his skull._

_"Seeley," Jo said, hugging him._

_"We've got to stop this--your boyfriend's gonna get suspicious," he joked and she swatted at him playfully._

_"Oh, you. Besides, you know perfectly well that we're engaged. Now come here," she ordered him, tugging at his arm to bring him closer to the bar. "Cam, this is Seeley Booth; Seeley, Camille Saroyan."_

_He held out his hand and she gripped it firmly, smiling. "Nice to meet you, Camille," he said with the smile that had brought other women to their knees._

_"Oh, please--call me Cam. Camille is what my father calls me--and that usually when he's upset." She smiled back, plainly sizing him up--and if he wasn't mistaken, she was interested._

_"Cam's a cop--did Paul tell you?" Jo interjected._

_"No," he answered, his own interest piqued. _

_Cam smiled just a little wider at his surprise. "For the moment. I'm attending med school in my copious free time. I'd like to do something with my life besides chase down drug dealers and rapists."_

_Booth raised his eyebrows, even more intrigued. She didn't look as though she could handle active street work. _

_She tossed him a smile that verged onto being a smirk as she continued, "I may be small compared to_ some_--" and her eyes raked over him "--but I'm good."_

_He chuckled. "I suppose that old saying about good things and little packages wouldn't go over right now, would it?"_

_"Smart boy," she said, patting his cheek; his hand shot out and captured her hand, thumb absently rubbing the soft skin of her wrist. "Besides, I grew up in the Bronx. I know the territory and not much scares me anymore."_

_Before he could come up with a rejoinder, they were notified their table was ready. He let go and watched her slide off the barstool and follow Paul and Jo. She moved as though she could take care of herself; hell, she practically strutted despite the enticing sway of her hips, and he swallowed back any comments about her job. It was sexy as hell,_ she _was sexy as hell, and he wasn't going to screw up his chances. He_ wanted _her._

_He had discovered a taste for smart and tough women since leaving school, after all. And Camille Saroyan sounded just up his alley. Maybe he would owe Paul instead of the other way 'round._

_

* * *

_

The song at the pub that Booth chokes on is William Bloat. And I think Cam might be a little older than Booth--just a year or two, nothing too major. Three years seemed reasonable for med school.


	8. Dreams, Memories, and Truth

_This chapter touches on "if it wasn't for my grandfather, I'd have killed myself," just so you know. Another thing you knew had to come up eventually. No official flashback this time--but you'll see why._

_In addition, my mother got a glimpse of this and offered her opinion on the Hank/Seeley interaction--efharistó, Mom!_

* * *

Booth sat up with a shout.

"Booth. Booth!" Bones was there, gently shaking him. "Wake up!"

"'M awake," he muttered, shaking his head to dispel the dream-fragments. "God, Bones. 'M sorry."

"For what?"

"I didn't mean to wake you…"

"It's all right," she assured him. "At least you don't have to call tonight."

He choked on a laugh. "True."

She left and returned with a glass as he untangled the sheets. "Just water. I brought some acetaminophen, too, but I don't know if you need that."

He took both, since he could feel the threatening pressure of an oncoming headache. "Thanks."

"Do-do you want to talk about it?"

She sounded hesitant and he shifted about, groping for the bedside lamp. When he flicked it on, she blinked in the sudden light.

"I don't know why you put up with me sometimes," he said. "Especially when I wake you in the middle of the night."

"We already covered that, Booth," she said tartly. "Friends and partners, remember?"

"Right, right. Partners. I've never had a partner I could really talk about these things with--nor one who dressed like that for bed," he added, with a nod at her camisole and shorts.

She flushed, just a little. "I doubt you've had many whose house you stayed at overnight, either," she retorted. "Or ones you bring Thai food to at midnight _just because_. Hence the additional designation of friends."

He rubbed his face. "You're way ahead of me tonight, Bones."

"I don't mean to be." She perched on the edge of the bed, patting his leg in what was meant to be a comforting manner. "But I do remember what it's like to not have anyone to confide in," she almost whispered. "Or people who believed me."

His hand dropped and covered hers, seeking and giving comfort. "No one could have a better confidant, Bones." He leaned back, still gripping her hand tightly. "I had a bad dream. About my father. Not the usual one, either." He had closed his eyes, but cracked them open to study her reaction. Her face was concerned, but not overwrought. Receptive.

"Did I ever tell you that I went to live with my grandparents when I was 11?" He wasn't ready to jump right in. Besides, she would have to know what happened in order to understand his nightmare.

"No. Why? What happened?"

He tugged her further onto the bed, so that they were both leaning against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder. "Mom had left Dad earlier that year. She was tired of being his punching bag and scapegoat. She didn't take us," he added, trying to control the lingering bitterness. "As an adult, I understand. She didn't have any money--Dad never gave her any--nor anywhere to go. She was an only child. Her parents were dead and all of her relatives were in Italy, save us."

Brennan leaned against him gently for a minute. "She had no way of supporting two children while she tried to make a new life."

"Exactly. Not that Jared or I understood then. See, she had worked with the advertising agency, but it had been freelance and I found out later that it had gotten…sporadic. I don't know why. They eventually hired her permanently, but then it was too late.

"Jared never quite forgave her, I think. I want to, I try to, but it's hard, Bones."

"I know. Who better than I?"

He squeezed her hand. "I see her once in a while. Letters at Christmas. Birthday cards. But not much more than that. At least you see your dad these days and he's tried to make things up to you."

"Maybe--like you tell me about my dad--she feels guilty and is afraid to talk to you about it. Has she ever seen Parker?"

He shook his head. "Neither of my parents have. I…I don't want them to. No--I'm afraid to let them."

Brennan absorbed that, then looked back up at him. "You told me once that it's especially hard to trust a parent who's abandoned you. I didn't realize you knew that as well as I did. And your father may not have abandoned you in the technical sense, but…"

"You got it, Bones. So there we were. Dad, Jared, and I. In that little house in Philly. The neighbors whispered because she had left; the kids at school teased us. It was a quiet neighborhood, mostly Catholic, and those things weren't supposed to happen. Of course, neither were things like a fifth-grader coming to school with at least one black eye or massive bruises every month. Nor his younger brother."

He barked a laugh. "Not that we actually told people what happened. 'I walked into a door' was one of our favorites. 'I fell' was another. Off my bike. Out of a tree. Tripped on the sidewalk. I actually came back from summer vacation one year and told the teacher a horse head-butted me!"

She bit her lip, half amused, half distressed. "And no one did anything?"

"One teacher sent Family Services over to talk to Dad after he--after my arm broke. He charmed them into believing we were klutzes, just normally clumsy kids, and that was it." He snapped his fingers. "Clean record. Ah, ya gotta watch the Booth charm, Bones. It can be lethal. Dad could--can?--turn it on in an instant. So can Jared."

"So can you," she pointed out. "You simply use it in a more ethical manner than your brother or father. And that damn smile of yours should be considered a WMD."

"What, this?" he asked, giving her a rather weak version of the smile in question. "I thought you said it didn't work on you."

"I didn't say anything about its effects on me," she replied loftily. "I was talking about its general use."

"Of course, Bones. Of course."

"So what happened when you were 11?" she asked, bringing them back.

He swallowed hard. He had _never _told anyone about this, and it was definitely one of the hardest things he had ever done. "I--I was alone in the house. Dad was at work or drinking; Jared was at some friend's. I was grounded for something I can't even remember, with additional punishment of cleaning up the house. I knocked over this cheap-ass bottle of booze and it fell on the floor and shattered. I suppose it wasn't my fault," he added with a distant look. "But it sure felt like it then and I _knew _Dad would have a fit. I could already feel the belt. Hear him tell me I was a lousy excuse for a son, for a human being, and it was Mom's fault they even had kids, _he _hadn't wanted any…"

_The glass had already cut him while he was trying to sweep it up and that might have been what gave him the idea. He found the biggest shard; it came to a point, just like a knife, and he closed his hand about it. Somewhere he had heard that you slit your wrists when troubles were too big and he dug the point into first one wrist and then the other, trying to cut through to the blue vein that pulsed there._

_He stared fascinated at the dark red blood that oozed up, wondering how it was blue underneath and red above. So fascinated that he dug in again, deeper, wanting to see when it changed color… The ooze became a trickle and the trickle a thin stream down his left arm._

He took a deep breath, not looking at her. "Fortunately, Pops--my grandfather--came over. I c-can remember him standing in the door, and I'm sitting there on the floor watching blood run down my arm.

"Pops…he, he pulled me up, gave me a good shake and asked what in Hell I was doing. Didn't I know that suicide was a sin? All the while, he's bandaging my wrists, cleaning blood and alcohol off the floor. I don't think I actually made big enough cuts to endanger myself, but I did lose some blood." He turned over his wrists to display his tattoos. "I got these just before I joined the Army."

"They hide the marks," she breathed, sensitive fingers touching them and finding the small scars underneath. "They aren't very big, you're right."

"I couldn't look at them anymore. Nobody else ever said anything to me, I don't know if anyone else ever saw them, but _I _always knew they were there." He fingered one of them himself. "They're Kanji for soul and destiny; I picked them to remind me I'm supposed to be in the world, that Pops was right to save me. There was no reason for him to come over that day, that exact time, you know; I still don't know what brought him…

"Anyway, when everything was cleaned up, Pops poured us both glasses of water and we went and sat in the living room. I told him everything: how Dad would come home drunk almost every night; that we either ate MickyD's or Taco Bell or something like that if he remembered to bring anything home--and if he didn't, we didn't always eat because he didn't remember to go to the grocery store. Or couldn't be bothered--it wasn't man's work. How he used to whale on Mom until she left, and then on me, because I couldn't let anything like that happen to Jared."

He sniffed and rubbed the back of his neck instead of under his nose like the kid he had been. "I don't want you to think we were starved on top of everything else, Bones. We weren't, but there were a few hungry nights and a lot of unhealthy food.

"Anyway, I showed him the last set of bruises and he saw more than that--he saw the earlier ones too, I think. He'd have had to. Then he took me by the shoulders again and looked me square in the eye. 'Does this happen a lot, Seeley?'" Booth took on a gruffer tone, in imitation. "I had to say yes, of course. 'And what about Jared?' And I told him how I lied to Dad, took the blame, but couldn't always. So, yeah, Jared had some marks on him, too.

"He got up and paced about the room. He always did when he was thinking, so I just sat there. What else could I do?"

He stopped, unable to continue. "God, Bones, I was only 11! I should have been thinking about school or sports or my favorite cartoon. The only things I should have been grounded for were things like not coming straight home from school."

He had a death grip on her hand and she was returning it with interest; he took a strange comfort of the feel of her nails digging into him. It gave him an anchor.

"He helped me clean up the rest of the place and stayed until Dad came home. Maybe you know, Bones; I wouldn't be surprised. But there's this sense of impending doom when you're waiting for somebody like that to come home."

"Yes. I--There was one--that…" She clamped her mouth shut and nodded.

"When Dad came home, Pops was waiting." He chuckled faintly. "We were an old-fashioned family, Bones." He held up his free hand when she started to say something. "Never mind. I mean that no matter that Dad was in his 30s--he still jumped when Gramma or Pops said jump, and asked how high on his way up. You don't see that too much these days. So Pops had shooed me outside, told me to stay out and keep Jared out once he got home. He even gave me ice cream money to sweeten it.

"But I could still hear them. And let me tell you, Bones, it was a real education. I didn't know half those words!"

"Your grandfather put you outside so you wouldn't listen," she reproached him.

"Then they shouldn't have talked so loud. I could hear them through the front door, and all I was doing was leaning against it. _Not _listening through the mail slot." He grinned, trying to lighten the mood a little.

She shook her head. "What happened?"

He closed his eyes again, remembering it perfectly. "Pops wanted to know what was wrong with Dad--he had had a perfectly lovely wife, two sons, and here he was trying to throw them away. Patty--Mom--was already gone and the boys were in bad shape, and the house was falling apart, because Dad wasn't doing anything. And where had he learned to treat his family that way, because it wasn't from his own father. 'If you want to drown yourself in drink, Thomas, that's your prerogative, I suppose, but there's no way you're dragging those boys down with you!'" He imitated his grandfather again, but left it at that, preferring not to think about the rest of the fight.

"_Good riddance to Patty," Tom Booth snarled. "The little bitch never did anything right. I wouldn't have married her if she hadn't gotten pregnant. You told me I shouldn't abandon a woman I got into trouble. God knows if I really did. And she didn't do a damn thing around the house. She just wanted to sit on her ass and write those damn jingles! She didn't even trust me to provide for the family!"_

_There was the sound of flesh meeting flesh--some sort of blow. He knew that sound all too well to mistake it for something else._

"_I also taught you to be respectful of women. And there's no way Seeley isn't yours. He's a Booth, through and through. But you wouldn't know, since you've been staring into the bottom of a bottle for so long."_

"_And what makes you so concerned all of a sudden? The boy's 11. Where've _you _been for the last 11 years? What gives you the right to come here now and try to tell me how to handle_ my _sons?"_

"_Because I had it brought to my attention--forcefully--exactly what's been going on here. Do you have any idea what Seeley was doing when I got here?"_

"_Effin' about, no doubt. Boy's as lazy as his mother."_

"_No. He was trying to slit his wrists, Thomas." There was a cold, frightening tone in his grandfather's voice--scarier even than his father's ever could be. "He broke one of your precious bottles while cleaning--a job too big for one boy--and was using a piece of glass from it. He knew how you were going to act, and he was afraid and tired of it. I'm only sorry he didn't realize he could come to me and I would have helped him. Helped Patty, too. I'm embarrassed and ashamed that you're my son. _My _son wouldn't have beaten his own sons until they were no more than a mass of bruises. What in God's name did you use on him, anyway? I saw cleaner marks in the War!" There had been a long pause. "You don't deserve to be a father! Get out! I'm taking the boys. You don't deserve them any more than you deserved your wife!" Another pause. "And if you try to stop me, I _will _call the cops on you, son or no."_

"Dad's a user," Booth said out loud. "He takes and takes, gives nothing but grief in return, and then wonders why I won't let him stay in my place."

"I don't blame you," Brennan said softly. "I wouldn't want him here, either."

"I-I guess that's what made Pops and Gramma take me--us--in, in the long run. They saw how Dad didn't really care." He ran a hand through his hair.

"And when Pops told him that, he simply shrugged and let them. Said it was one less thing for him to worry about, and were they taking Jared, too?"

"Oh, Booth!" She sounded properly horrified, and then somehow her arms were around his shoulders and his about her waist and he let go. Buried his face in her shoulder and let go of the rejection he had suppressed for years, the feeling of being inadequate, the yearning of a boy for his father's love and approval, all of it. His shoulders shook under her grip.

"Booth," she murmured just loud enough to be heard, "trust me, Booth, you are more than worthy. You're a better son than he deserves. And somewhere, somehow you know it. That's why you're such a good father to Parker. You are a wonderful, considerate, kind, gentle, smart man. I couldn't have a better friend, nor Parker a better father." She continued murmuring reassurances even as he cried and shook in her arms.

Neither one of them knew how long it went on, but Booth felt a little better for the purging. He pulled away slowly, groping for a tissue, and caught the gleam of tears on her face as well. "Bones," he said, freeing an arm enough to wipe them away, "what's that for?"

She looked away, that look of uncertainty on her face. "I-I suppose it's because…" She fumbled for a tissue herself and wiped at her eyes, then her nose. "Because you are my friend and the thought of you being hurt hurts me!" she finally blurted out.

"Bones…" he murmured, touched to the core. She more than believed him, she _understood_. Although he would rather she didn't understand so completely. That spoke of terrible things she had seen and been through on her own part.

"No," she said, straightening up. "We were talking about you--leave my pain in the past for now."

He sighed, wondering when exactly she had learned to read him so closely, and leaned back against the headboard again. "We were. Once I was moved in with Gramma and Pops, things went pretty well for me. Looking back, I can't say that Jared was as happy, though he certainly didn't like Dad hitting him."

"That's when you became that 'golden boy,' wasn't it?"

"I guess." He shifted his shoulders uneasily. "With things easier at home, school stuff was easier. But I did have nightmares, even then. Mostly of Dad, beating me, beating Jared, or Mom, and I couldn't do anything about it." She patted his hand comfortingly and he recaptured hers. "After joining the Army, I dreamed less about him, and more about war, and my targets, and my buddies who died." He fell silent and she wisely said nothing. "Sometimes I dream about Parker now--it's more of a _what-if _scenario, though. Or--" He cut himself off again, flicking a glance at her. She didn't need to know she sometimes took Parker's place in his worst nightmares, and those really were the absolute worst, since there was a touch of reality to those. What if he hadn't seen that little puff of smoke and dust? What if he hadn't been fast enough and that bomb had caught the cab's gas tank? What if he and Hodgins hadn't gotten to that warehouse on time?

Her eyes narrowed, as though she was trying to figure out what he was going to say. But he could see the moment she decided not to press. "Tonight's was different, then?"

"Yeah. I dreamed about the glass--I haven't dreamed about that in years. But instead of Pops coming in…Dad was standing there watching me. Not lifting a finger to help. Saying something about mistakes being erased and glad of it…chance at a better son…" His eyes filled again and it was her turn to gently wipe tears away with one hand, the other finding his again.

"I repeat, Booth, you are a better son than he deserves. Even Jared is more than he deserves. The fact you turned out so well is a testament as much to your own innate worth as it is to your grandparents' care." She smiled at him wanly. "Have I ever lied to you, Booth?"

"Never."

* * *

_Whew!_


End file.
